The cocktail hour had now arrived--one hour before dinner, an hour which was fixed by that distinguished compounder of herbs and spirits, Mr. Biffton--and the room began filling up. Most of the members were young fellows but a few years out of college, men who renewed their Society and club life within its walls; some were from out of town--students in the various professions. Here and there was a man of forty--one even of fifty-five--who preferred the gayer and fresher life of the younger generation to the more solemn conclaves of the more exclusive clubs further up and further down town. As is usual in such combinations, the units forming the whole sought out their own congenial units and were thereafter amalgamated into groups, a classification to be found in all clubs the world over. While Biffy and his chums could always be found together, there were other less-fortunate young fellows, not only without coupon shears, but sometimes without the means of paying their dues--who formed a little coterie of their own, and who valued and used the club for what it brought them, their election carrying with it a certain social recognition: it also widened one's circle of acquaintances and, perhaps, of clients. The sound of loud talking now struck upon Jack's ear. Something more important than the angle of a parasol or the wearing of out-of-date spats was engrossing the attention of a group of young men who had just entered. Jack caught such expressions as--“Might as well have picked his pocket....” “He's flat broke, anyhow....” “Got to sell his house, I hear....” Then came a voice louder than the others. “There's Breen talking to Minott and Biffy. He's in the Street; he'll know.... Say, Breen!” Jack rose to his feet and met the speaker half way. “What do you know, Breen, about that scoop in gold stock? Heard anything about it? Who engineered it? Charley Gilbert's cleaned out, I hear.” “I don't know anything,” said Jack. “I left the office at noon and came up town. Who did you say was cleaned out?” “Why, Charley Gilbert. You must know him.” “Yes, I know him. What's happened to him?” “Flat broke--that's what happened to him. Got caught in that gold swindle. The stock dropped out of sight this afternoon, I hear--went down forty points.” Garry crowded his way into the group: “Which Mr. Gilbert?--not Charley M., the--” “Yes; Sam's just left him. What did he tell you, Sam?” “Just what you've said--I hear, too, that he has got to stop on his house out in Jersey. Can't finish it and can't pay for what's been done.” Garry gave a low whistle and looked at Jack. “That's rough. Mr. Morris drew the plan of Gilbert's house himself. I worked on the details.”